


no sugar in my coffee

by auxanges



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Anal Sex, Humanstuck, Implied/Referenced Blow Jobs, M/M, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Smoking, sex in a restaurant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:28:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25845064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auxanges/pseuds/auxanges
Summary: “I used to work here.”“To the shock of precisely no one. So what?”“So I still have my key.”And the lightbulb over Bro’s head turns on. Metaphorically, of course, since the actual lightbulb over your seat starts to flicker.
Relationships: Cronus Ampora/Dave's Bro | Beta Dirk Strider
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28
Collections: Drone Season 2020





	no sugar in my coffee

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mangotastic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mangotastic/gifts).



> "Humanstuck goes a level further to dinerstuck. After a date at a retro diner, Cronus gets locked in with a character/s of your choice from the list above. A fucc ensues (the cool metal bar top is too sexy to not to get some on). As exasperated or amused the date is, they can't deny that this greaser fishboy is pretty.  
> Go wild, have fun, and make sure Cronus gets Fukt Up!"
> 
> read bronus. blacked out. wrote this in a fugue state. bon appétit

“This place is kind of a dump,” Bro comments around a mouthful of burger. The light above your booth buzzes loudly, like a very large point-proving cock-blocking cicada.

You steal a fry from his plate. “It’s authentic,” you correct him.

He swipes it back. Christ, he’s speedy. His ball cap’s shoved back a ways, and his hair is so thick you could smother yourself in it. You think of prairie grass. “Authentic. I’m about it.”

“And don’t worry, they got rid of all the asbestos over the Christmas holidays.”

Bro barks out a deep laugh. “Gross.”

It’s actually your second date. You are, admittedly, stretching the definition of ‘date’ a little – four Jaegerbombs deep into a _Law & Order_ marathon last week you sucked each other off in what you’re pretty sure was a competition. The results? A tie-ish, and you still can’t get the sticky licorice-scented shame mess off your futon.

“So lay it on me,” he says after a long sip of milkshake. There are two shots of some middle-shelf booze in it, somewhere between the candied cherry and whipped cream. Your iced coffee is similarly treated. “Why did we actually come here? There are better burgers in town. Hell, there are better burgers in my freezer.”

Some barely recognizeable Elvis solo warbles through the jukebox in the corner. You follow along against your glass, and note (a little smugly) that Bro’s eyes track your fingers behind the tinted lenses of his shades.

“Because,” you say, chomping on your straw like you can leach tobacco from it somehow. “I used to work here.”

“To the shock of precisely no one. So what?”

“So I still have my key.”

And the lightbulb over Bro’s head turns on. Metaphorically, of course, since the actual lightbulb over your seat starts to flicker.

“Race you to the bottom of your drink,” he challenges finally, kicking your instep under the table.

“You really do have a brother,” you mutter, doing your best to ignore the pleasant warmth uncurling in your stomach.

“That means nothing if you also have a brother,” Bro counters, followed by, “ow, Jesus, ow, that’s cold.”

You both drink yourselves into a light buzz and a killer brainfreeze: you raise a fist in victory, then use it to signal for the check. Closing time is in an hour and a half. You need a game plan.

“Wanna fuck around in the arcade down the street and beat a bunch of little kids at _Big Game Hunter 3_?”

Hell yeah, you do.

* * *

It was either the counter or the booth, and both you agreed you’d rather not be responsible for the third upholstery change in a year. Your bare arms squeak painfully against the polished surface. Your bare ass harmonizes, also painfully.

“Yowch.”

“Baby.”

Bro kisses like he punches. Somewhere between Jaegerbombs two and three, you tackled each other off the couch trying to remember a combination of Mortal Kombat finishes and high school wrestling moves. Here, there is less gladiatorial foreplay and more clicking of teeth, more bruised and ringed knuckles fisted in hair. He licks the swollen pout of your bottom lip; if you were still sixteen you probably would have come on the spot.

Ah, youth.

You grab at his erection through his pants, earning yourself an elbow to the ribs. “Christ alive, Cronus, you’re not pulling fuckin’ weeds,” Bro grumbles between bouts along your throat.

“You gonna lose these or not?” You flick open the button at his fly with your thumb: it’s only partly to show off, you mostly do it ‘cause anything you do with your hands drives Bro ballistic in a very positive way.

Proving your point, he lifts his hips off the counter with a half-groan, half-sigh, transferring his weight to one forearm as he pulls down his trousers with his other hand. You catch a glimpse of skin when his shirt rides up—you think Bro’s a long-distance swimmer, all legs and abs and an ass you could bounce a goddamn quarter off of. Your mind threatens to wander to ill-advised comparisons, but he splays a hand over your ribs and kisses you again, his cock warming your thigh, and you decide you’ve earned a decent screwing.

The showman in you is content to work yourself open; the voyeur in Bro is content to sit back and watch you scissor two fingers inside yourself, head back against your jacket he stuffed under you, the fuckin’ knight in thrifted armour. Neither of you are very patient, though, and you barely manage an affirmative before he thrusts into you. His nails dig into the tattooed skin at your side, and you make some ungodly noise that roughly translates to “fuuuuuck yeah” in the language of the sexually liberated and emotionally stunted. It’s an endangered tongue almost exclusive to your families.

Bro’s arms are way too nice not to touch, and you hook your ankles behind his head to let your legs hang around his shoulders, easing him in deeper. Squeak. Jesus, they really love waxing this stupid counter, don’t they? You’re not sorry for leaving shoe prints all over the faux leather barstools.

He tastes like cherries. You claw at the exposed skin at the back of his neck, dragging your own nails along his nape. Bro chokes out your name; you let out a cracked _Dirk_ and watch his eyes snap to attention, somewhere between surprise and irritation at the little piece of vulnerability you’re prying free of him. Belatedly, you realize his glasses are off, lost to the red and blue tiles underfoot along with his tacky cap.

Prairie grass, again. Bushfire. You hold your trite purple prose garbage under your tongue until he comes back to kiss it out of you.

Every snap of his hips lifts your ass and lower back clear off the counter. You’re gonna be nothing but bruises tomorrow, but you don’t care, you have never cared as little about your appearance as you do right now. And that’s a phenomenal compliment, as far as you’re concerned. Bro Strider, cure-all for self-esteem-deficient men everywhere.

You’re floating somewhere above the bar when he finally wraps a hand around you, pumping your length and thumbing the tip like your shirt’s not already ruined with precome. His other index brushes over the raised lines at your brow from the time you fought your own stupidity and lost. You feel like he shattered you into pieces and then pulled you back together. You feel unbelievably full. You feel—

“Fuck,” you gasp, “fuck, Bro, _fuck_ —“

“Cute,” says Bro, and he winks, and your climax hits you like a goddamn freight train.

You’re left kinda slack, after that, shaky arms joining your legs behind his head while he fucks into you like it’s his job. It should be, really, but there’s some legal problems with that or something. But it’s cool, though, it’s super cool, especially when he jerks once, twice, and groans your name again, quiet as he’s ever been.

For a moment, you both keep still, gulping in stale diner air. Bro extricates himself from your limbs: one of your heels smacks a tap and you get beer on your shins.

“Ew, come on.”

He laughs again, more of a cough than anything; your bodies aren’t made for laughter, but you do it anyway. That’s what dates are supposed to do, right?

“I’m jonesin’ for a smoke,” you say, when you remember how words with more than one syllable work.

Bro grunts in agreement. You clean each other off with little fanfare, red around the ears like you didn’t just take Austin’s finest up the ass on liquor-licensed property. He collects his hat and shades, tucking the former under his arm and shoving the latter into his hair; your belt clinks quietly, keeping your secret.

Outside, between drags of Pall Malls he provides (you forgot yours, but he forgot his lighter, so you’re even), he asks, “What are we gonna do for a third date?”

You roll your cigarette between your teeth. “I don’t have any more restaurant keys, if that’s what you’re getting to.”

“Fuck, no. If they ever get blue light in that place I’m moving and changing my name.”

You grin at the cracks in the concrete. “Order in, then?”

“You bet, chief.”

“Cheese.” You watch him wink again, anyway, just because.


End file.
